


Stay Close to Me

by Quixcy



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hamilton References, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixcy/pseuds/Quixcy
Summary: When Victor finds out he only has one ice skating season left to leave a legacy, he ends his coaching with Yuuri to participate in his last Olympics before his time is up. But when an accident somehow transports him back into his 17-year-old body, he must rely on Yuuri to coach him to the Olympics. And perhaps, on the ice, he might finally learn how to say goodbye.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got this idea while re-watching the first episode. Especially Yuuri's beginning monologue where Young!Victor is skating, and turns into our Victor, I began to wonder...what if? So this is what my brain has come up with. Yes there will be lots of fluff and angst. Shout out if you like it!
> 
> (also, not beta'd)

It was the strangest dream.

Victor rolled over in bed, pulling the covers over his shoulder, blinking blearily at the time. The angry red clock on his nightstand blinked _5:44 AM._ The time he once woke up for practice when he trained in America, so he could make it to the rink by six, and then school by eight. He was sixteen, then. Yurio’s age.

Sometimes he still woke up so early.

He groaned and rolled over to the other side, trying to get comfortable again. He tried to remember the dream, but the more he did, the more he realized that it wasn’t a dream at all, and the realization only made him colder.

_“What...are you saying?” Yuuri asked, a broken look on his face._

_Victor tried not to look at him, the crumpled note still in his hand. He tightened his fist so the paper wouldn’t show through. “I miss the ice. I miss dance. I made a mistake,” he replied, explaining the only way he knew how. “To pursue my own happiness, I can’t be your coach anymore. I will be competing in the Olympics. Against you.”_

_The look on Yuuri’s face began to fracture him, like a glacier cracking, so he turned away. He couldn’t look anymore, hoping that Yuuri didn’t see the lie. Didn’t see how much it hurt to lie._

_But the truth hurt, too._

_Yakov was right. He only had one season left in him. But Victor didn’t realize that it would be his last season alive._

He curled up in bed, trying to get warm. Trying to find some peace of mind. He did this for himself, for his own happiness. He needed to leave a legacy, to leave _his_ legacy. He needed to, one last time.

No matter who he hurt.

_“You’re drinking too much,” the bartender said. “I’m cutting you off tonight.”_

_“Fine I’ll go another where,” slurred Victor, slamming down what he hoped was enough cash to pay for his drink, and stumbled out of the bar. The burly man behind the counter yelled after him, but he didn’t listen. Hasetsu was cold in the winter, but nothing like Russia, even when it snowed._

_He zipped up his jacket anyway against the evening chill, and crunched through the ice toward another bar. Any bar. He was warm on the outside, but he was still cold. Still freezing. The note was stuffed into his jacket pocket now. He didn’t want to remember what it said._

_He didn’t care._

_Just like, he told himself, he didn’t care what Yuuri thought of him. The brown eyes that filled with pain. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way he turned, walked away, and didn’t look back._

_Victor didn’t care._

_He didn’t._

_Somewhere across the Hasetsu bridge, he stopped. Walking somewhere—aimlessly. But it was in the direction of the hot springs resort. And he realized he was crying._

No matter which way he moved, he couldn’t get comfortable. His whole body ached. His head throbbed. What a nasty hangover. He could barely think. Everything hurt. He gripped the covers tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Car lights lit up the sidewalk from behind. A horn blared._

_He glanced over his shoulder. A car, speeding across the bridge swerved. Lost traction. He watched it come closer, sliding sideways. He couldn’t move. The light was too bright._

_And then—_

Victor jerked up in bed, gasping for breath. His hands were white-knuckled around the covers. He was shaking. His hair stuck to his neck, plastered across his face, his eyes darting around the small hotel room. The one he rented after telling Yuuri he was leaving for Russia again. The plane ticket was still on the dresser. His clothes laid out over his suitcase.

It was a dream. He was fine.

But then why were his bones still shaking?

 _You’re fine_ , he thought to himself, pushing the covers off, and stood on shaky legs. He felt his way to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. Silver hair spilled over his shoulder, and in annoyance he ran his finger along the opposite wrist, an old habit, to snag a rubberband to tie it back—

And froze.

Stared at the hair pooling in the sink, becoming wet. Then, numb—or knowing this was still a dream—he turned off the faucet, and looked up into the mirror. His face stared back, but it was different. The crow marks around his eyes were gone, his widow’s peak still full, his eyelashes long and skin smooth. His shirt hung looser on him, his body thinner, his pajama pants half an inch too long.

He bent closer, touching his cheek. He felt it. Cold fingertips, warm skin. He pinched his cheek, and winced at the sting.

It took him a moment to realize. To let it sink in.

And then he screamed.


End file.
